“HOLY SHIT!” was yelled out the back of the car as it sped along the highway.
“Watch your language, sweetie.”
“Sorry mum. That wasn’t me. It was Buzz Armstrong. He just feel out of his moon-rocket.”
“Holy shit. He okay?”
“Yeah. He’ll be fine. He’s got a parachute.”
reflex seems appropriate somehow. right now. it’s not then. it’s reflexively NOW. N-n-OW.
withholding my love just a little bit. being just a little bit to scared to really really go there. to really really admit that i can’t conceive of a world of living without you.
stride in that direction, kid. take a walk. journey far. and send me a postcard.
eye lashes. fifty lashes.
Gretchen sat at the kitchen table. Rollers in her hair. Sipping her tea. She tried not to look across at the empty chair. Maybe he’d come back this morning.